


it's time to kill the lights and shut the dj down

by nirav



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, bees schnees week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25541332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirav/pseuds/nirav
Summary: “Food,” Blake says after a minute, voice hammering into Weiss’s skull and arm limp around her shoulders.“We don’t have food,” Yang says, and Weiss looks up because Yang sounds for all the world like she’s about to cry.  “We were supposed to go grocery shopping last night, but--”“Date night,” Weiss finishes for her, nose wrinkling and then a flash of pain stabbing behind her eyes for it.  “We went out for date night instead.”
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Weiss Schnee/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 15
Kudos: 216





	it's time to kill the lights and shut the dj down

**Author's Note:**

> bees schnees week day 7: date night

Weiss wakes up and, immediately, regrets it. Blake’s head is pillowed on her stomach, Yang’s mass of hair all over the mattress at her side and half in her mouth, which otherwise feels cottony and fuzzy, and she blinks up to the ceiling and wonders what ancient god she offended to deserve the headache hammering at her skull.

“Get off me,” she mutters, slapping at Blake’s shoulder uselessly, because if she has to be awake then so does Blake, and if Blake wakes up then she’ll wake Yang up and then Weiss will have company in her misery. Sure enough, Blake stirs with a particularly un-Blake-like whine, fingers digging into Weiss’s side, and she shoves a foot into Yang’s leg until she jerks awake and then falls off the bed. A whimper sounds from the floor after a moment, and Weiss peels her head off the mattress with a herculean effort, which Yang _better_ appreciate, thank you very much, until she can see Yang sitting up with a pout and a wince, squinting in the bright sunlight.

“Why is the sun loud,” Yang says with a groan, one hand shading her eyes. 

“Why are _you_ loud,” Blake mumbles, curling onto her side and burying her face in Weiss’s stomach again, and it disrupts the precarious hold Weiss has on her entire being and the hangover she’s been holding at bay comes roaring to the forefront and she drops her head back onto the bed with a gasp. 

“I hate you both so much.” She flings an arm over her eyes to block the sun, which somehow burns straight through anyways. “I need so much coffee.”

“Coffee is dehydrating,” Blake says unhelpfully. “You need water.”

“I need coffee.” Weiss ignores her. “An entire IV of coffee.” She wrinkles her nose. “I feel like something died in my mouth. What did we _drink_?”

“I have,” Yang says slowly. “No fucking clue.” She makes it to her feet, and Weiss pulls her arm away enough to watch her sway to one side, and then the other, and somehow stay on her feet. She’s still in her jeans from the night before, the ones that she’s had since college and refuses to throw out even as they wear down to threadbare, patched and barely decent and entirely too appealing, and if she were less hungover Weiss would take a moment to appreciate them like always. Instead she just shoves her arm back over her eyes and flings her other arm out. 

“Food,” she grunts out, particularly ineloquently, and waits for Yang to pull her up to standing. There’s a long pause, presumably as Yang steels herself against her own hangover and pulls Blake up first, and then she’s levered up to standing and the entire planet tilts on its axis, and she has to cling to Yang’s arm and bury her face into Blake’s shoulder. 

“Food,” Blake echoes after a minute, voice hammering into Weiss’s skull and arm limp around her shoulders. 

“We don’t have food,” Yang says, and Weiss looks up because Yang sounds for all the world like she’s about to cry. “We were supposed to go grocery shopping last night, but--”

“Date night,” Weiss finishes for her, nose wrinkling and then a flash of pain stabbing behind her eyes for it. “We went out for date night instead.”

“Whose dumb idea was that?” Blake mutters.

“Yours,” Weiss and Yang say, and it sends another stab of pain skidding through Weiss’s head to stick her tongue out at Blake when she grumbles at them, but it’s worth it, even in the midst of the hangover, and she shifts to lean into Yang instead while Blake huffs. 

“Diner?” Blake says.

“Diner,” Yang confirms. She slumps against Weiss, and Weiss nearly buckles under her weight, arm automatically going around her waist anyways.

“I will drop you, I swear to God,” she gasps out. 

“Just let me die in peace,” Yang says with a whine. She digs a hand into the back pocket of Weiss’s jeans, finds her wallet, lets out a satisfied whine. “Good, you can buy my last meal.”

“I hate you,” Weiss informs her, even as she hikes an arm around her waist and hauls her out of the bedroom and towards the front door in something approximating a walk but that’s really closer to a shuffle. Blake follows, collecting sunglasses on the way, and is the only one who remembers to grab keys from where she almost trips over them in the front hallway, shoving them halfheartedly into one of Weiss’s pockets as the door starts to swing shut. 

Weiss glances back inside as the door shuts behind them, squinting at the jumble of shoes and jackets scattered through the hall. Whatever they got up to last night, she does _not_ want to know.

* * *

The diner on the corner across from their building wasn’t a deciding factor, necessarily, when they moved into the apartment, but it’s seen them enough late nights and hungover mornings in the last four years that it’s been a factor in every decision to not move since then. It’s late enough in the morning when they stumble in, Yang still leaning on Weiss and Weiss slumped into Blake’s side, most of her face hidden behind sunglasses, that the breakfast crowd has cleared out, and the owner takes one look at them and immediately disappears into the kitchen with a disapproving cluck.

“If she bans us this time,” Blake croaks out. “I’m killing both of you.”

“Not if I kill you first.” Weiss shoves her forward, towards the corner booth they favor. She unloads Yang’s two tons of solid muscle into the booth with a _whump_ and follows ungracefully. If her parents could see her now, they’d write her back into the will just for the joy of disinheriting her again based solely on the disgraceful spectacle of pouring herself into a 24-hour diner booth at eleven in the morning on a Saturday in Queens in last night’s clothes and makeup with a hangover that the oldest Soviet satellite could see from space.

Blake slides in on the other side with considerable more grace, because everything Blake does is graceful compared to Weiss, who on her best day is just sharp edges and a practiced imitation of poise compared to Yang’s charisma and the casual ease that comes from being able to bench a tractor and Blake’s impossible liquid grace. Even hungover she looks unfairly, preternaturally good, one arm slung along the back of the booth and garishly blue mirrored sunglasses perched on her nose, hair pulled up off her neck, mouth tilting up into a smile somehow. 

Weiss can see her reflection in the lenses of Blake’s glasses and she looks like someone hit her with a bus, ponytail tousled and sunglasses four times too big for her face because they’re technically Yang’s, shirt wrinkled to hell and back. She scowls and yanks at her hair, but her fingers are as useless as the rest of her, and Yang, somehow, takes pity on her and makes some useless shushing noise, fingers deftly moving through her hair and pulling it back into something resembling an actual ponytail.

Coffee appears in front of them and Weiss has never loved anyone in her life more than the waiter depositing it on their table. 

“Thank you,” she mutters, proper enunciation foregone in favor of burying her face in the steam rising from the mug that’s still too hot to drink from, because maybe the vapors will vanquish her hangover. 

It doesn’t work, because the universe hates her, but it clears her head the tiniest bit, and she sits up straighter and finally peels the sunglasses off with a wince.

“So,” she says after a long second of inhaling coffee steam. She pushes the cream over towards Blake, hands a sugar packet to Yang. “Who remembers what?”

“I’ve got nothing,” Yang says with a grunt. She fumbles with the sugar packet and then lets out a pathetic whine when it bursts open, sugar scattering all over the table instead of into her coffee. She stares forlornly down at the crystals all over the table, broad shoulders slumping pathetically.

Weiss produces another sugar packet and leans closer, pressing into Yang’s side until she can tear it open and pour the sugar into her coffee. Yang rumbles out something indecipherable that’s presumably a thank you and presses a kiss to the top of her head, which mostly just rattles Weiss’s brain inside her hangover and makes her want to throw up, but she leans into it anyways, pats at Yang’s knee. 

“We went to that Turkish place,” Blake offers from Yang’s other side. She’s still got her sunglasses on, because she’s obnoxiously cool enough to do so inside without looking pretentious, and she stirs cream into her coffee lazily. “The one Ren suggested.”

“Right,” Yang says, and swallows half of her coffee at once. Weiss winces as she does, because her own coffee is still steaming hot, but Yang’s temperature regulation has always defied scientific norms. She takes a careful sip of her own, burns her tongue, and takes another one. “Weiss got in a fight with host.”

“I didn’t--” Weiss snaps, and then stops, because it makes the whole diner turn uncomfortably. “He brought me the wrong coat.”

“He did.” Blake salutes her with her coffee mug.

“It was a mistake,” Yang says mildly. “People make mistakes.”

“Of course people make mistakes,” Weiss huffs out. “But then he didn’t _believe_ me.”

“It was--”

“Four sizes too big!” Weiss says indignantly. “And _green_!”

“It was a cute coat,” Yang says with a shrug, leaning back in the booth and propping an elbow along the back, sunglasses popped up on top of her head and hangover apparently no longer a problem, which is possibly even more annoying than the fact that Blake is sitting there silently looking like a supermodel, and Weiss burns the top of her mouth drinking coffee in a truly brilliant retort. “It wasn’t even like the coat you had was one of your nice ones--”

“You bought me that coat, asshole,” Weiss mutters over her coffee, and then takes a sip large enough to scald the entirety of her esophagus because she can keep a straight face over the burn for the effect of watching Yang choke on her own coffee. Her garbage childhood is good for few things, but keeping a straight face to deal a fatal winning blow in a useless argument is absolutely one of them.

Blake slaps Yang softly on the back of the head, shaking her own, and takes a sip of her own coffee. “You had to see that coming,” she says fondly.

“Sorry,” Yang mumbles, and Weiss softens immediately, because Yang is never stingy with her apologies when they’re owed, not like Weiss is, and she always looks like a particularly contrite mountain god of some kind when she feels guilty. Weiss hooks her foot around Yang’s ankle because she’s not willing to give up the grip she has on her coffee yet, seeing as she’s decided it’s her only current lifeline to beat back the worse edges of her hangover, but it works to dissipate the stormy edge in Yang’s eyes.

“What’d we do after that though?” Yang says. She squints down into her coffee. “I think-- ice cream?”

“No,” Weiss says absently. “Baklava. Blake was in a mood.”

“It wasn’t a _mood,”_ Blake protests. 

“She says, moodily,” Yang says, cackling. It slices through Weiss’s head like a knife and she considers if they would be banned from the diner forever if she threw up under the table, and decides against finding out. 

The waiter reappears with a tray of food and her hangover is accosted with the smell of grease and, as always, there’s a moment where she’s caught on the edge of a wave of nausea before willpower wins out, and, suddenly, she’s ravenous. Plates of eggs and bacon and toast are unloaded in front of them, enough to feed a small army and then some, the same they always need when they stumble in after one of their more absurd nights, and if Weiss weren’t in a firmly committed relationship, she’d kiss Oscar right on the mouth just for bringing the food to them.

“Thank you,” she says instead, because she’s hungover, not an absolute heathen.

“Oscar, you beautiful bastard, I could kiss you right on the mouth,” Yang says, because Yang is always a heathen. Blake punches her in the arm but offers her own, more polite thanks, and Oscar flushes scarlet like he always does and vanishes.

“You’re going to give that kid a heart attack, you know,” Blake informs her before shoving a piece of bacon into her mouth and groaning in a way that Weiss is absolutely certain is illegal in public, because Blake might not be a heathen but she's clearly a succubus designed specifically to test Weiss in the most strenuous of ways and Weiss will _not_ fall for it. She turns her focus the fried eggs and hashbrowns on her plate instead, because that’s safer than the way Blake treats food the way she treats sex, which Weiss definitely cannot think about when they’re not at home.

“Anyways,” Weiss says primly. She scrapes hashbrowns onto a piece of toast and then maneuvers an egg on top of them precisely. “Baklava. Lower East, I think?”

“Probably,” Yang mumbles through an absolutely enormous mouthful of omelette. “That one place with the thing, where that one pop up was. The one Nora’s obsessed with.”

“Remember that time she made us stand in line for six hours to get a fucking pie for Thanksgiving?” Blake snorts. “Six hours. For a pecan pie.”

Weiss spears her fork into the egg, watching the yolk spill onto the hashbrowns before she takes a careful bite. “And then she didn’t even share.” 

She takes another bite, and then another, and stops herself from making an inappropriate noise, but just barely and only because she can only give Blake shit for it if she doesn’t do the exact same thing and she doesn’t have the mental fortitude to conjure up an argument to justify her double standards until her hangover has dissipated by at least another forty percent. Technically it’s not possible that the combination of grease and carbs and protein has already started to chew away at the edges of her hangover, but she’ll take the placebo of it anyways.

Yang’s already inhaled most of her food, the same powerfully spicy omelette she always orders that even Weiss, who can normally take on the Scoville scale with the best of them, can’t handle, and Weiss shifts her plate closer so that she can steal one of the pieces of toast. Weiss has never once finished the toast the comes with her meal, and Yang always finds herself still hungry. It’s a system.

“I think we met up with them after,” Yang says, stacking leftover pieces of pepper onto her toast.

“Who?” Blake snaps the last piece of bacon on her plate in half and reaches past Yang to hand it to Weiss, who never deigns to order any but always wants at least a bite. 

“Nora and Ren.”

“Oh,” Weiss says, taking a small bite of the bacon. “You’re right. At that bar, the one with the--”

“Tribeca.” Yang snaps her fingers. “The one with the cash table, and the bra chandelier.”

“God, I hate that place,” Weiss says with a groan. “Whose idea was that?”

“Yours,” Blake and Yang chorus, and Weiss lets out a groan again.

“You like taking the table from finance bros and you know it,” Yang says, ruffling her hair like an asshole, and Weiss could break her wrist because she knows four different types of martial arts, but she’s both equally invested in the continued health of Yang’s hands and wrists and also in the wrong here because Yang is right. There’s not much of the night she remembers after dinner, but she remembers the long amble across Manhattan, because it was cool but not cold and they’d been buzzed but not drunk at that point, happy and warm, Blake’s arm around her shoulders and her hand in Yang’s, Nora and Ren strolling with them. The bar in Tribeca is one they’d found years ago, accidentally, sticky and divey and with a terrible pool table upstairs, and always full of misogynistic finance types who play as poorly as they handle their liquor, and Weiss is five feet of financial excess and alcohol tolerance, and she grew up with a nine-foot Olhausen table and a set of thousand-dollar Viking cues and a chip on her shoulder.

It’s everything after that she can’t remember.

“I hate you both,” she says instead, because lying is an excellent alternative to admitting that she can’t remember much past sharking with Blake and then pulling her in for a kiss by the suspenders-- suspenders that are now hanging loose from her jeans, because Blake's sitting there like a goddamned supermodel impervious to the laws of God and nature and alcohol, like an asshole-- after winning just to annoy the men they’d just beat by three games to none. Given the mountain of a hangover she’s fighting this morning and how easily she was playing at that point, there was a _lot_ more after that, and she will absolutely not be admitting that everything past that is a blur of whiskey and beer and, possibly but hopefully not, making out in a bar bathroom. 

Oscar comes back to clear away their plates and leave the check, and Weiss busies herself with dragging the check over blindly, digging her wallet out and glaring at the way both Blake and Yang look like they’ve completely recovered from their hangovers.

“How do _both_ of you look fine?” she grumbles. She flips her wallet open and then freezes, staring down at the stack of cash in it.

“We’re magical,” Yang says casually, slinging an arm around Blake. 

“Weiss?” Blake nudges at her knee under the table. “You good, babe?”

Weiss pulls the cash out of her wallet, flipping through the bills rapidly and counting, and then counting again.

“Something missing?”

Weiss counts a third time, more slowly. “No,” she says uncertainly. “There’s more.”

“More?” Yang says with a snort. “Weiss, you’re a millionaire. No way you have more money than usual.”

“I always know exactly how much money I have,” Weiss says absently. “Last night I had exactly two hundred in cash when we left for dinner.”

“You just carry two hundred dollars in cash?” Yang mutters with a huff.

“We wound up at a cash bar, Yang,” Weiss sighs out. She holds up the stack of cash. “This is over two _thousand_ dollars.”

Yang’s eyes go wide and she grabs for Weiss’s hand, slapping it down on to the table.

“Ow!” Weiss says, glaring and yanking her hand back. She shoves the cash into Yang’s hand and fumbles in her pocket for her phone. Yang looks dumbly down at the cash in her hands and then immediately shoves it into Blake’s hands, who blinks down at it.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Count it!” Yang hisses out.

“What, you think I can’t count?” Weiss says, one eyebrow skidding upwards. “I run a sixty billion dollar company, Yang, I’m pretty sure I can fucking count.”

“I don’t know! Do you know why we have two grand?”

“I’m trying to figure it out!” Weiss flashes her phone, almost dead, at Yang, showing the loading screen from her banking app on it. “No withdrawals. It’s not from the checking account.”

“Did we rob a bank?” Yang says, and Weiss starts to protest and then pauses, head tilting because in the ten years they’ve been in each others’ lives, they’ve gotten into a fair few--

“We did _not_ rob a bank,” Blake says flatly. She stacks the bills neatly and hands them back to Weiss.

“I’m sorry, do you remember the entire night?” Yang says, gesturing uselessly with one hand. 

“I know we wouldn’t rob a _bank.”_ Blake rolls her eyes. “Worst case scenario is we, like, pranked Whitley, who deserved it and also too much of a chickenshit to ever press charges, but I feel like if we pranked him it wouldn’t have been for _cash_.”

“Maybe we’re being framed for a robbery,” Yang says, jabbing a finger into the tabletop dramatically. “Someone who hates Weiss is trying to--”

“Why is it someone who hates _me_?” Weiss says indignantly.

“Schnee,” Yang says, flippant and unconcerned, flapping one hand towards the entirety of Weiss, which isn’t much and every inch of which is suddenly vibrating with annoyance. Weiss shoves an elbow into Yang’s ribs, the specific part that’s particularly ticklish that she found once early in their relationship and generally avoids out of respect for Yang and the way her entire body always convulses when someone touches it, and is satisfied when Yang’s knees smash into the bottom of the table and she lets out a groan.

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for it.” Weiss slots the cash back into her wallet neatly. She leaves enough on the table to cover the tab and tip and settles her sunglasses back on her nose, pushes herself up to her feet. “One that doesn’t involve a bank robbery or someone trying to frame me for a crime.”

“You don’t know that,” Yang says, even as she lets Blake pull her out of the booth, free hand curling into one of Weiss’s beltloops. Weiss huffs out a sigh and waves to Oscar as they leave, whines into the sunlight as they step outside. Thank God it’s only a block to the apartment. Food and coffee or not, she’s not sure she could make it much further.

“I’m sure,” she says, mostly because she’s unwilling to entertain any other explanations until she’s had Tylenol and a shower. 

“You’re in denial,” Yang informs her. “Blake, tell her.”

“I will not,” Blake says mildly. 

“Thank you for being reasonable,” Weiss says, sighing and waiting for a break in the traffic so they can cross. This is New York,for God’s sake, don’t people realize it’s a city for foot traffic?

“She probably stole from the elderly,” Blake carries on. “Isn’t that the Schnee way?”

Yang lets out an outright guffaw, and Weiss yanks her hand free from both of them in offense, marching out across the street and dodging traffic as she does. She’s always been a more adventurous jaywalker than either of them, having lived here her whole life; it scares them shitless the way she’ll dodge buses and Ubers in five inch heels, and she skims past a taxi and hops delicately up onto the other sidewalk and turns back to look at them smugly. Blake’s fingers are digging into Yang’s arm and Yang looks like she’s going to puke, and Weiss flips a middle finger up at them.

She strides into the building and slaps at the elevator button, arms folded over her chest, her phone battery having given up after she checked her bank account and leaving her with nothing to do but stew at her hangover while she waits. Blake and Yang tumble through the doors as the elevator dings, and she sighs and waits for them, foot holding the door open, and Blake elbows her in the stomach when she’s close enough.

“Asshole.”

“Jackass,” Weiss throws back.

Yang sighs and drapes an arm around both of them, and Weiss relents immediately, leaning into her side and curling an arm around her waist, finger hooking into the edge of Blake’s pocket. Blake sighs and her hand comes up to the back of Weiss’s neck, familiar fingers winding into her hair, and they ride the elevator up in silence.

“I’m going to shower until my skin boils,” Weiss mumbles when they’re back inside, and she kicks her shoes off, sighing and rubbing at her ankle. She doesn’t remember her feet hurting during the walk from the Lower East Side to Tribeca in stilettos last night, but she can sure feel it now. “Nobody talk to me until after that.”

Yang flops down onto the couch, sprawling across the entirety of it with a groan, and she flaps one hand in agreement. Blake hums noncommittally and follows her into the bathroom, a bottle of water appearing in hand from somewhere, and pulls the Tylenol down from the medicine cabinet. She shakes two into Weiss’s hand and claims two for herself, presses a kiss to Weiss’s temple as she swallows the pills and then reclaims the water bottle for herself and leaves Weiss to drown herself in the shower, because Weiss can handle the greasy spoon diner portion of the hangover with them, but she likes to handle the drowning herself in the shower part on her own.

They’d renovated the bathrooms two years ago and the shower had cost, according to Yang, almost as much as her entire undergraduate degree, but it’s worth every penny when the hot water wears away the worst edges of her hangover, and Weiss leans her head against the wall and closes her eyes and dreams of dying peacefully in this shower and never having a hangover ever again.

Her skin’s violently red, save for the bruise on her collarbone that looks suspiciously like Blake’s handiwork, by the time she makes it out of the shower, and she’s aggressively dehydrated, but she almost feels like a human being again, and she wraps a towel around herself and follows the billow of steam out of the bathroom. The bed’s been made, the apartment tidier, the other bathroom also steaming, and she peers out into the living room to see that Blake and Yang have both also showered as well and are laying on the couch, Blake half-asleep in Yang’s lap and Yang drowsily reading a book.

Weiss leans against the wall and watches them silently for a long moment before turning back to the bedroom. Someone plugged her phone in on the bedside table, and she flips through a series of work emails and news alerts before discarding it and digging out a pair of sweats and one of Blake’s t-shirts. She’s toweling her hair dry with one hand and catching up on text messages when, suddenly, a stream of texts from Nora catches her eye and her heart nearly stops.

The towel falls out of her hands and she nearly smacks her face into the door scrambling out into the living room, feet skidding on the floor, and Yang looks up from her book with a wide grin.

“Well hey there,” she says calmly.

“Yang Xiao Long,” Weiss seethes. “What in the _hell_ \--”

“So apparently,” Blake says, yawning and stretching, shirt riding up on her stomach deliberately, and Weiss picks up a pillow from the other couch and flings it at her for the underhanded tactic. 

“Someone tell me _right now_ ,” she snaps out, thrusting her phone out and flashing the series of pictures from Nora at them. “Why there are pictures of us making out on a fucking _bar_ \--”

“Well,” Yang says with an absolutely shit-eating grin, and Weiss finds another pillow to throw at her. “ _Apparently_ Blake challenged Ren to a drinking contest.”

“Lie Ren has the alcohol tolerance of a seven year old!” Weiss bellows.

“Which is why Nora tapped in for him after the third ground,” Blake says with a huff. “Which is completely unfair, for the record.”

“So it was only fair that I helped out, right?” Yang shrugs. “This might have been before or after you humiliated a bunch of dudes at pool. I’m not sure.”

“Both of you, I swear on all that is good and holy in this world.” Weiss pinches at her nose. “Tell me what these goddamned pictures are or I swear to God--”

“So then I’m going shot for shot with Nora,” Yang carries on, completely ignoring her, because Yang is an asshole, and Weiss is now out of pillows and contemplating throwing her phone at Yang instead. “And you’re making out with Blake, I think, or maybe hustling dudes, I don’t know what y’all were doing, actually.”

“We were having sex in the bathroom,” Blake supplies, and Weiss nearly blacks out because that bar is _filthy_ and she would absolutely never have agreed to that in her right mind, and Yang also has the presence of mind to look offended, thankfully--

“Without me?” Yang squawks out, and Weiss glares at her, because that is _not_ the point. “Rude!”

“You were busy losing a bet with Nora,” Blake says with a shrug. 

“Unbelievable,” Yang mutters. “Anyways. Apparently after you two fucked in a bathroom _without_ me, you came and tapped me out.”

“I did what now,” Weiss says flatly, arms falling at her sides.

“In the drinking contest,” Yang says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “With Nora.”

“The drinking contest with Nora,” Weiss echoes. “That was actually a drinking contest with Ren. And Blake.”

“That one.” Yang snaps a finger gun at her, and Weiss wonders, briefly, how important this relationship is to her and if she should just become a hermit on a private island forever. “Anyways. Things are a bit fuzzy at that point, but I think Nora decided to bet you literally all of the cash in her checking account that she could outdrink you and then sent Ren to every ATM in Tribeca.”

“Oh, dear God,” Weiss says with a groan. “Please tell me that cash isn’t hers.”

“Better that it’s hers than that you knocked over some poor old grandma for it,” Yang says cheerfully, and if Weiss were a lesser woman she would absolutely catapult Yang through a window and, surely, no jury in the world would ever convict her. It’s only the certainty screaming in the back of her head that Ruby would eviscerate for murdering her sister that stops her.

“I’m breaking up with you,” Weiss says thinly, pointing sharply at Yang, and then Blake, who has the audacity to look offended. “Both of you.” She stabs a finger at her phone, pulling Nora’s number up and rubbing at her forehead while it rings in her ear, pacing in front of Blake and Yang and ignoring the way they’re both watching her with matching amusement and absolutely obnoxious grins, because they’re the _worst_ partners and she tries so hard, she really does, and she does not deserve these trials, surely--

“Weiss!” Nora shrieks in her ear, and she nearly falls into the fireplace and honestly, that’s on her, because she’s known Nora long enough to know what to expect from a phone call.

“Nora,” she sighs out. “Please, for the love of God, inside voices.”

“Weiss,” Nora yells out, ignoring her entirely. “I need a _rematch_ so I can win back my--”

“Don’t be absurd,” Weiss says, and she drops down to sit on the couch opposite Blake and Yang, because sitting next to them would be tacit approval of their behavior and she will _not_ be offering that right now, even if Blake has now curled into Yang’s lap and taken her shirt off in a particularly distracting manner. Absolutely not. “I’m giving you your money back. Obviously."

“No!” Nora says, offended gasp racing across from Brooklyn and reigniting Weiss’s headache all over again. “You won it fair and square, but I _will_ win it back. Tonight! Our place! Tequila!”

“Nora.” Weiss wants to drop her head into her hands, wants to lay down and die quietly and peacefully because she’s just trying to do the right thing here and this is her reward, wants some reprieve from her batshit morning, but instead she has Nora Valkyrie demanding a drinking contest with her second-least-favorite liquor in one ear and and that goddamned breathy sound Blake makes when Yang’s kissing her neck in the other and, honestly, Weiss does _not_ deserve this. “Please. I forfeit. Can I just pay you two thousand dollars to find out why the _hell_ there are approximately nine million pictures of me and Blake and Yang making out on top of a bar at two in the morning?”

“Oh, that?” Nora lets out a _pffft_ that Weiss doesn’t know how to interpret. “That was at like four. The clock’s broken in that place. You’d bought out the jukebox to play _Honky Tonk Badonkadonk_ on repeat and kept trying to make Blake dance on the bar and then Yang got up there with her and then you got that sad puppy face you get when they’re doing things without you--”

“I do _not_ ,” Weiss says, scandalized, because she’s never in her life looked like a sad puppy. “Have a sad puppy face.”

“Yes you do,” Yang says, pulling away from Blake’s throat, and Blake makes a disgruntled noise and yanks her back in place by the hair, but also gives Weiss a _look_ , the one that makes Weiss’s skin burn and her spine liquefy, the one that’s had her canceling client meetings and booking last minute flights home, and repeats Yang’s words before her eyes slide shut again.

“Anyways,” Nora carries on blithely. “You looked sad so you got up there with them and when the bartender tried to stop all of you you told him you could buy the whole bar four times over and then you all started making out.”

“Oh, God,” Weiss says, though if pressed she couldn’t be entirely sure if it’s out of mortification at how date night had gone from a relatively tame dinner to _that_ or if it’s because of the ripple of muscle in Blake’s back, the dig of Yang’s fingers into her skin, the contrast between Yang’s paler hands and Blake’s darker skin. 

“Yeah, it’s been ages since I saw you that trashed,” Nora says, cheerful and oblivious.

“I have to go,” Weiss says stupidly, and stabs uselessly at her phone until the call ends. She drops it on the couch as she stands and it falls and there’s the unmistakable sound of the screen cracking when it hits the floor, but she ignores it-- she’s a fucking millionaire, she can buy a thousand new phones-- because it’s more important that she get to the other side of the living room as quickly as possible. One hand skids along Blake’s ribcage, the other tangling into her hair and pulling her hair back until she gets an audible reaction, the type that she feels from her scalp straight down to her toes, and the last prickling edges of her hangover vanish along any lingering worries about date night went awry.

“Still mad?” Blake breathes out, eyes only half open and hands still buried in Yang’s hair. 

“Let’s find out,” Weiss says, and twists her fingers tighter into Blake’s hair, because Blake’s always liked it when she pushes back, and is rewarded when her eyes burn impossibly darker. 

Yang pops up suddenly. “Date night success, then?” She says, and laughs brightly when Weiss and Blake push her back into place, and Weiss pushes closer until she can kiss Blake.

“Definitely successful,” Yang mumbles against Blake’s throat, and Weiss, occupied with the spot under Blake’s ear that always makes her eyes roll back and her pulse stutter, can’t help but agree.


End file.
